5 to 1

by Holly Bodger

  I stuffed

  underneath.

  I stare at my parents,

  their elbows only inches from

  each other.

  their demeanors

  no more intimate

  than two high-rise towers.

  I imagine

  the three of us could really talk.

  I’d ask them questions such as

  Would you do it again if given the choice?

  Would you marry because you had to?

  Or would you run—

  even if you had nowhere to go,

  and no one to go with—

  would you run because

  staying

  meant another kind of death?

  My imagination

  provides an empty lot

  where answers should be.

  Even if they could tell me the truth,

  it would be like polishing funeral logs.

  We can’t change the past.

  Not Mummy’s.

  Not Papa’s.

  Not Nani’s.

  Not even Koyanagar’s.

  No, we cannot change

  the mistakes we’ve left behind.

  But there’s one thing we can do—

  one thing I must do—

  we can choose not

  to repeat them.

  30

  The rich boy and I are led back to the waiting room. We sit on the perpendicular benches while the middle-aged guard stands by the door. He’s there to make sure we don’t cheat or fight, although I don’t know why—or how—we would do either at this point. This last test is a formality. A way to show us that the winner is not chosen by intelligence or by strength or by skill. It’s chosen by her.

  I take my first piece of paper and write one word: Goodbye. I want to say Good luck, but that would be admitting that she needs it and I must believe that she does not. She seems smart and she’s definitely strong-willed. She’ll do just fine without me. Won’t she?

  I glance across the room. The rich boy looks up from the blank sheets of paper on his lap. He shrugs and grins at the guard. “I’ve got something to give to that sweet little virgin and it’s not a poem.”

  The guard doesn’t smile back. He moves his gaze slowly to meet mine as if he’s trying to see if I’ll react.

  And I do.

  In my head.

  In my head, I stand up and grab the boy by the front of his kurta. I slam him against the wall and then I drop him to the floor like a sack of manure. I tell him that Sudasa deserves his respect, and not because she’s a girl. Because she’s a human being. Like him. Like me.

  The boy stands, letting his papers and pencil fall to the floor. He continues to address the guard. “I bet you wish it was still the old country, huh? A man should be able to stick it to his wife whenever he wants, and if she doesn’t like it, he should be able to slap her senseless. That’s the only way they understand who’s wearing the pants, right, Mota Bhai?”

  This time, the guard’s eyes meet mine quickly. He lowers his gaze to the bench. To where I’ve tightened my fists around my paper, my knuckles turning into snowy peaks. My head is a hurricane of swirling heat. I don’t want to drop that disgusting monster on the floor. I want to hold him by the neck until his face goes from red to purple to blue, and when it’s almost too late for him to take a final breath, I want to tell him that if he ever talks about Sudasa that way again—if he ever so much as touches one of the silky hairs on her head—I will end him. Then and there.

  “Get your papers,” the guard says to the rich boy as he whips open the door. “You’re going to another room.”

  The boy exits, flashing me a wink on his way out.

  I jump to my feet as the door closes. I kick it with my foot and then I punch it with my fist. I’m about to punch the wall as well when I hear Appa’s calm voice in my head.

  Patience, boy. Any idiot can fall down. It takes a strong man time to climb up.

  Oh, Appa. What I’d give to see you now. You could tell me that it’s okay if I deviate from the plan. You could tell me that it’s okay to marry Sudasa and make you the brother of your greatest hero. You could tell me that we were both wrong. That Koyanagar is not as bad as we thought.

  I sit back down on the bench. No. You could not tell me that and I couldn’t believe you if you could. This country is the reason Sudasa and I are both here. It’s the reason I don’t have my amma and the reason Sudasa might end up the wife of a beast. Everything about Koyanagar is wrong and everything about your plan is right.

  I pick up a new piece of paper and scribble Goodbye again. I have to leave. Amma or not, it is like the Mighty Bala said: the right path to follow, even at the darkest hour. And oh, how dark this hour is. Did Appa know it would be so hard? Would he tell me not to go now that I know Amma is dead? No, of course he wouldn’t. Appa wants a better life for me. A life not here. And he cannot know about Amma. He would have told me if he’d found out she was dead. He would have let me mourn her every year on 31 December. He would have mourned her himself.

  So why did the Mighty Bala leave the registry where I would see it? Did Appa ask him to help me if I needed it? To guide me if I looked lost? Is that what the registry was? A way to give me an extra push in the right direction? Perhaps as far as the Mighty Bala is concerned, the fact that Koyanagar caused the deaths of all those boys should be reason enough to leave it. And it is.

  I hold my head in my hands. But how can I leave Sudasa in a world like this? And worse, with a boy who will hurt her? It will haunt me for the rest of my days, and I already have enough ghosts.

  I lift my head. What if—?

  No, it’s too risky.

  I stand. But I could—?

  No, it will never work. Not now that I returned the registry. Unless—?

  Could I?

  Would I?

  Would she?

  31

  The boys return.

  First

  my cousin, with his chin leading his strut.

  Last

  Five, his gaze low, his brow furrowed.

  He seems nervous.

  Nervous that I won’t keep

  my promise.

  That I won’t set him free.

  The director looks my way,

  making a sweeping motion

  that tells me it’s my turn

  to perform.

  I position myself in front of my cousin.

  He holds his paper in his hands.

  His shoulders slightly dropped.

  His tail between his legs.

  I take the paper from him,

  my reaction checked

  as it unfolds.

  I finally have control of the reins.

  Too bad the race was won

  long ago.

  His poem is a forced rhyme

  with words like

  fun,

  ton, and

  sun.

  They rhyme about our future.

  About the girls we’ll have.

  About the girls we’ll bring

  to Tests like these.

  In my head,

  I scrunch up his poem.

  Throw it in his face.

  I tell him that will happen

  over

  my

  dead

  body.

  Because I’d rather die

  than do

  → THIS ←

  to my own child.

  With that thought,

  the clouds disperse.

  My options

  turn into

  w i d e

  blue sky.

  All this time

  I’ve been struggling with

  who

  to choose,

  I missed the real point.

  The choice I was given

  three days ago

  was not which

  boy

  to choose, but which

  life.

  Like Asha said,

  it doesn’t
matter which boy wins.

  The act of accepting the outcome

  is a defeat

  for everyone.

  Was that what Mummy meant

  when she said

  I must be fair to myself?

  Was she saying I must do

  what I want?

  Not here, in these Tests.

  In this life?

  Is that what Papa meant

  when he said

  I would die if I stood still?

  Did they both know

  my heart would tell me

  to do

  what they could not?

  Did they name me Sudasa

  not because they wanted me to obey,

  but because they wanted to brand me

  with a permanent reminder

  of the fact that I exist

  because they had?

  That Koyanagar exists

  because we all do?

  That our wall stands

  t

  a

  l

  l

  because we let it?

  The director clears her throat.

  I tuck my cousin’s words

  inside my sari.

  For a brief moment,

  my hate for him evaporates,

  leaving in its place

  a thick sorrow.

  How sad it is that he believes

  that winning me

  is a victory

  for him.

  for his gender.

  for everyone in Koyanagar.

  The director clears her throat again,

  so I step over to Five.

  I find him back

  behind his mask,

  and yet his pleading expression is as

  naked

  as it could be.

  I open my palm.

  In it he drops a folded square.

  I wonder if,

  like origami—

  like him?—

  it will sprout wings when

  I set it free.

  I close my fist for a moment.

  Pretend I know

  what it will say.

  Please?

  You promised?

  Thank you.

  Goodbye.

  But when I unfold the paper,

  I find not a plea.

  Not a goodbye.

  Nothing but these words:

  The fish are at their best

  when the sun meets the sea

  at the place in Hun Market

  where the bananas used to be.

  —Kiran

  The fish?

  Why would he think I want—?

  Unless—?

  Could he mean Asha? Or girls like Asha?

  Like me?

  Girls who want a second option?

  Who want to escape?

  With him?

  When the director clears her throat once more,

  I remember where I’m

  standing.

  Realize what I may be

  holding.

  I scrunch my fist.

  Freeze

  my breath.

  Freeze

  my expression.

  Freeze

  my thoughts.

  I pretend I’m thinking.

  That I need time.

  Time

  to consider.

  Time

  to slow down.

  Time

  to STOP!

  I tell time to become a feather

  falling

  d

  o

  w

  n.

  Swaying s i d e w a y s

  in the warm breeze.

  And before I know it,

  I’m on the floor.

  Voices calling—

  calling my name.

  32

  My head is heavy. Motionless.

  I open my eyes.

  See a ceiling papered

  like a swirling sky.

  Swirls of blue looping

  in out

  and

  in out

  and

  the blue

  fades to

  gray

  fades to

  white

  fades

  away.

  My cheek is cold.

  Wet.

  I turn to see Mummy

  holding a cloth against

  my temple.

  Her eyes are red—

  wet—

  and her chin quivers

  like jelly.

  I turn the other way.

  See Papa holding

  my hand.

  Tight.

  As if he’s protecting it.

  Or protecting what’s inside it?

  But he can’t.

  He can’t know what Five—

  what Kiran wrote.

  I start to say, “What happened—”

  but Nani cuts me off.

  “Nalini,” she says, glaring at Mummy,

  “this is your fault.

  You were supposed to teach

  duty,

  not

  insolence.”

  The cloth on my face

  drops down to my neck,

  pressing the ruby drops

  HARD

  against my throat.

  Mummy whips around

  and her tiny voice

  EXPLODES

  like a firecracker

  that has been trapped in a crate.

  “I’m not the one

  who made these Tests,

  who decided that children

  should have children of their own.

  That was you

  and your friends in State.

  You took your pain

  and your anger

  and you turned it on her.

  “You want us to protect our daughters?

  Well, I’m protecting mine.

  I’m protecting her from you!”

  Mummy points

  so Nani will look at me.

  At what she has

  done

  to me.

  But Nani remains

  a statue of herself,

  her eyes flickering slightly

  like a candle

  in a breeze.

  “You don’t understand

  what I have been through,” Nani says,

  stepping into her martyr

  costume.

  “I chose to keep you

  when everyone said to

  get rid of you like the others.

  Even your father tried to abandon you

  in one of those parks,

  but I went back for you.

  I brought you home.

  “He got his revenge

  when he up and died and

  I had to risk my life—

  take charity from my sister—

  to put food in your mouth.

  “So yes, I fought to change things.

  I wanted you to have

  the luxuries

  I did not:

  Beautiful clothes.

  A penthouse flat.

  A husband who could put jewels on your fingers.

  “Still, you do not repay me

  with a little respect.

  You take those luxuries

  and throw them in my face!”

  I hear Mummy’s breath

  turn heavy and loud.

  “Respect?” she yells.

  “Is that what you call

  these shackles you’ve put on me?

  You might as well have locked

  me in the safe

  with your money and

  your precious Registry.”

  Nani’s eyes turn to slits,

  but Papa speaks calmly

  before she lets out her hiss.

  “This tug-of-war must end here and now.

  Sudasa’s not a wishbone

  you can break

  to get your way.”

  He turns back to me

&
nbsp; and squeezes my hand.

  “Beti, are you ready

  to put this to an end?”

  Something in his eyes

  tells me he doesn’t mean my Tests tests.

  He wants me to be free

  of this backward system.

  He’s not going to help me.

  Or tell me what to do.

  I must do it because I want to.

  Because it’s what I choose.

  Not

  to spite Nani.

  Not

  to punish my cousin.

  Not

  to help Asha.

  Just to obey me.

  I sit up

  and say, “I’m ready,”

  and I know right then

  my heart is, too.

  33

  The Choosing Ceremony

  takes place outside,

  on a raised platform

  that all can revere

  from the surrounding streets.

  Rather than using rocks

  to award the winners,

  each girl gets a jade pendant

  that hangs

  from a velvet cord.

  The jade was chosen

  because it symbolizes love.

  The round shape

  because it symbolizes eternity.

  They got one of those right, I suppose.

  When it’s my turn,

  the director calls my name.

  She hands me the necklace

  and says, “Please make your choice.”

  With the black cord threaded

  between my fingers,

  I press the cold stone

  in my sweaty palm.

  I take a step toward Kiran

  so I can see how it feels.

  It feels right

  in a way,

  but wrong

  just the same.

  He made it clear:

  he doesn’t want to win me.

  But his poem—

  could it meant that

  he doesn’t want to lose me, either?

  Did it mean that

  anyone

  could go to the market at sunset

  if they were looking for an escape?

  Or does

  anyone =

  me?

  I search his eyes

  for an answer—

  a confirmation?—

  but he darts his hard stare to the right.

  And so I veer toward my cousin.

  To where he stands,

  his teeth a clenched vise.

  He believes he has won.

  It’s clear in his stance.